


Of Requirements

by Senket



Series: House Dynamics [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft needs to house an 11-year-old Sherlock next year. He's nervous about Greg's response. Greg is perfect as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Requirements

When Mycroft entered, Lestrade was already stretched out on the bed that he replaced their typical armchair after a few months, apparently napping. Moving towards his ‘young man’ with slow, quiet steps, he shed his tie and robe, unbuttoning his collar and cuffs. Draping the fabric over the small bedside table, Mycroft carefully sat at the edge of the wide mattress, tenderly brushing Greg’s long fringe back. The older boy made a soft snuffling sound, flinging an arm out to wrap around Mycroft’s waist, dragging him closer.

Greg rolled over on his back, pulling Mycroft down over him, sleepily nuzzling against the crook of his neck, nipping at his jaw. They should be getting back, really they should- Mycroft, especially, as Head Boy, but Lestrade, as well, the oldest prefect in his house- they should be present in their houses in case of calamity. Bea had the Gryffindors in hand, though, and Slytherins would not put themselves in such a position as to require Mycroft’s obvious attention. Mycroft sighed against him, slumping. Lestrade blinked, immediately sat up. “Mycroft?”

“Greg.”

He shifted, sat up as well but folded himself against Greg’s torso, listening to his heartbeat.

Greg watched, running his fingers soothingly through the boy’s hair. “What’s wrong?”

“The headmaster refused to accept Sherlock next year. He thinks Sherlock isn’t ready, isn’t mature enough to enter early.”

“Mycroft,” Lestrade smiled, leaning forward to breeze his lips against his boyfriend’s temple. “Sherlock may be nearly as bright as you, but you can’t argue that he still throws tantrums regularly. This shouldn’t upset you.”

Mycroft slowly shook his head, pressing his nose into the open line of Greg’s half-unbuttoned shirt. It took him a while to respond but Greg was used to waiting. “It isn’t why. Mummy’s condition is getting worse, and she can’t look after Sherlock anymore. She... I-”

He pressed himself closer, locking his arms around Greg’s torso. The Gryffindor hardly minded a lap-full of warm, cuddly Mycroft but the young man’s mood was... somewhat disheartening. “You?”

“I have to take care of him, Gregory. Sherlock’s coming to London with me.”

It was surprise more than anything that made Greg pause. It didn’t make sense. Why was Mycroft upset? Mycroft loved his brother, often regretted not having more time to spend with him, talked about him at length when they were lying, lazy, in the dark together, a soft, awed, affectionate warmth in his voice as he described Sherlock’s adventurous, crazy, explosive shenanigans. How Mycroft wanted to play duets with his little brother, direct him in his potions experiments, coach him in the self-transformation magic that ran strong in the Holmes family (an animagus at fifteen, incredible Mycroft.)

Mycroft took the silence incorrectly, pulling back to stare pleadingly up at the older boy, fingers tights around Greg’s upper arms. “I wanted to move in with you, Greg, god knows I did, I just- I have to take care of Sherlock. He’s my baby brother, I love him, it’s just for a year, and- and summers, but it’ll be fine, I promise.”

Greg laughed. Mycroft looked like he’d been struck. Greg sighed, chuckling, and drew Mycroft against him. “You emotionally stunted genius,” he purred, pressing a line of kisses from Mycroft’s temple to the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to choose. Sherlock can absolutely move in with us.”

Mycroft stared up at him with that look of surprised awe that always made Greg’s heart jump, stroking fingers down Greg’s nose and mouth. Greg caught a finger between white teeth, running his tongue along pale skin. Mycroft shivered, pressing close again. “Merlin, you’re perfect.”

“Possibly,” Greg purred, busying his fingers with the removal of his boyfriend’s shirt.

Half an hour later, Greg looked up from where he’d been sucking marks into Mycroft’s ribcage. “I have one stipulation, actually.”

Mycroft sucked in a startled breath, mumbling unintelligibly, lashes fluttering. “Guh?”

“If Sherlock is going to move in with us,” he specified, slithering up the young man, rubbing against smooth skin unnecessarily. “I have one condition.” He watched Mycroft’s eyes focus, grinning predatorily.

“Greg?”

“A deadbolt on our bedroom door.” His tongue flashed out, wetting Mycroft’s red lips, stoking his fingers up Mycroft’s thigh, grinding their hips together. “It should give us a week to thoroughly christen the place.”

Mycroft shivered and groaned and desperately held on.


End file.
